The Various Lies of Zidane Tribal
by CrimsonCobwebs
Summary: When Zidane is forced to flee Alexandria due to an irreversible law, he turns to his sister for help, only to find she's been keeping a rather large secret from him... Family reunion ahoy! R&R plz!
1. Prologue: Warm Raindrops

Previously entitled 'Of Sibling Spats and Forging Futures'. I know I said I wouldn't post this before 'Be The Reaper' is finished but meh. Sue me. (I wouldn't suggest sueing me - I own a grand total of £0.00) Enjoy the fic!

* * *

**warm raindrops  
**(i can't just walk away, it goes against my nature)

1.

"How are you fairing, Your Majesty?"

Garnet was sad. Sadder than she'd been for a very long time, and she couldn't seem to voice her sentiments. The words wouldn't come. The sensation was familiar, unnervingly so, considering her young age. Few people could relate to a sorrow so profound it snatches the very ability to articulate, yet her depression continued to pile up like the stacks of paperwork she'd yet to sign – and probably wouldn't, not for another few hours, at least.

She wished she could take it all back. She wished she had the power to alter time. She wished she had the power to alter _law_.

But such thoughts were all but futile and it did little to prevent the splintering of her already splintered heart.

So she ignored the intruder and pressed her forehead against her window frame, always searching, always hoping, thinking that no one else called her Dagger except him, and now he was gone.

2.

The monsoon had hit hard this year.

Well, she assumed it had. She knew nothing of the fickle weather conditions on this planet (neither did the others, for that matter) but she simply couldn't imagine rain falling harder than it was now, nor thunder roaring as loudly, nor lightning ripping the clouds with quite as much vigour. It was all a little overbearing, to say the least.

Strolling with inapt tardiness despite said conditions, the girl stared up at the needle-leaf branches that trembled beneath the weight of rain, occasionally shrugging off the water in startling bursts. Brief respites in overhanging foliage allowed the rain to pummel the sodden earth in heavy sheets, transforming some areas into ankle-deep swamps. The environment was alive with sound.

Weather, climate, heat waves, monsoons: all these were novel to the awe-struck girl. However, she dabbled in all and let none thwart daily tasks - such as collecting apples for the village.

She admired her full basket, sheltered beneath the glossed, animal-hide umbrella she had opted to bring (she enjoyed the fruits of the climate but she found getting dry after getting wet was tedious and uncomfortable) and watched stray droplets tremble on their shiny skins like misty diamonds.

The ostensibly infinite rows of trees abruptly stopped short of a small clearing consisting of thigh-high grass (brushing unpleasantly against her thighs with wet, sticky fingers) and dustings of blue wild flowers. The rain plummeted from heavy, dark clouds with so much force here that her umbrella bowed beneath the onslaught.

And that's when she spotted him and knew something was desperately, devastatingly wrong with nothing more than a glance.

The shock of meeting another person in such an uninhabited area had caused the basket to slip from nerveless fingers, and now the freshly picked apples rolled along the mottled ground in a clumsy attempt to escape. One of them bumped against his foot and tumbled awkwardly aside but he didn't seem to notice.

And that was how she initially discerned that something was terribly amiss: he seemed completely disconnected from his surroundings. He leaned heavily against the wrinkled trunk of a pine, as if he could no longer tolerate standing. His head was drooped so far down that his blonde locks – matted from the rain – obscured his face.

The downpour had drenched him; little droplets slid down his cheeks and dripped off his nose and chin.

Worse of all, his tail was utterly still and she knew, from personal experience, that something must truly be wrong if the tail opts for complete immobility.

Sometimes one hadn't even to glance at a person's expression to know their feelings; observing the movements of the tail can reveal as much; an irritatingly helpful appendage when it comes to deciphering someone's unspoken sentiments (she had spent years meticulously training her own in an attempt prevent the manifestation of emotion through tail-language, but much to her dismay she was yet to perfect the art; the stubborn limb seemed to have a mind of its own).

And the fact that he was here of all places certainly didn't bode well, either. How long had it been? A year? More? She'd lost track of Gaia's mystifying calendar.

So she stood for a moment, basket at her feet, wondering what to do. He either was yet to notice her presence or was purposely choosing not to hail her.

The girl shifted her umbrella and fat drops pattered to the ground.

His outfit hinted at a hurried departure: dirty black trousers, tattered sheaths sporting twin daggers, and a white shirt. A _white_ shirt in a _monsoon_. What foolishness! It was completely transparent and stuck to him so tight it looked like he was in the process of shedding his skin. And that's when she noticed he was bare foot. Bare foot! What was the reasoning behind such madness?! His feet and ankles were caked in so much mud they resembled brown shoes!

Finally, the shock subsided and she edged forward, wet leaves sticking to rubber boots. He didn't stir as she approached and she began to worry that he really might not have noticed her and would startle violently if she advanced too quietly, so purposely crushed leaves and rattled the umbrella.

But he didn't stir. His eyes were closed - she could see his profile now - and his face was expressionless. A mask.

Knowing that it was too late for such invalid gestures but not really knowing what else to do, she raised the umbrella over his head and listened to the drum of rain against its protective barrier. Felt the precipitation trickle down her now unsheltered neck and cheeks.

"Zidane?" she breathed softly. "Zidane, what is it?"

At first he didn't move. Didn't even show he'd heard. Then he inhaled a great, shuddering breath and opened his eyes until they met hers. Full of sorrow, full of hurt, full of pain. Too much. Swimming, bursting, frothing in those crystalline waters that were frozen now, glacial and cold. So different.

She blinked, unsure of him and unsure of herself, but as it turned out she didn't have to react at all, because he took said initiative and moved forward and embraced her, buried his face in her hair and suddenly there were warm raindrops mixing with cold, pattering down her neck with such flowery softness it left her speechless.

_Interlude:_  
Tantalus' Burden

"Hello. My name is Philippe Gash. I am rather sizeable in comparison to my numerous brothers and am terribly stubborn, especially when it comes to closing my substantial mouth. I also have a disagreeable tendency to vomit blood and pus and –"

"You're fucking disgusting."

"Well, _excuse_ you. I do believe Philippe Gash was talking. My deepest apologies, Master Gash, please continue –"

"Boss! Request permission to gag Zidane!"

"Granted!" a voice bellowed from the other room.

"No, no, no! I'll be good!" the invalid of the two brothers squeaked from his stained sleeping pallet.

"I don't want good," the other snapped, "I want _quiet_. From you and fuckin' _Philippe_ _Gash_."

"Okay. Philippe Gash agrees. Don't you Master Gash? Yes, yes I do. And for the record I think Blank is a self-centred, miserable old fart whose short coming is his inarguable incapability to feel anything resembling pity and –"

Blank reached out and swiped Zidane's hands away from the open wound splitting his side. When the redhead had told Zidane to 'amuse himself' while he tended to his wounds he failed to predict Zidane's newfound game of opening and closing the inflamed skin around a bloody gash to make it 'talk'. The blonde thief was simply insufferable at times.

"Doesn't it hurt to do that?" he barked tersely, eyeing the crimson cut while deftly cleaning another.

Zidane shook his head. "I'm am sooo drugged up on elixirs I don't know um… left and right."

"Left _from_ right, halfwit," the redhead corrected, and tore off a strip of bandage with his teeth while miserably surveying the work to come.

Blank had to admit that he wasn't surprised Zidane was too numb to feel anything. Boss gave the boy so many elixirs the redhead was shocked he was still conscious; or perhaps it was because of the elixirs he was still conscious at all, he wasn't sure.

It had been three weeks and Zidane's condition had improved, though not as much as the Tantalus members would've liked. When the girl who resembled Zidane too strikingly to go unnoticed dragged him out of the Iifa Tree they barely recognised the bloody, tangled mess of flesh unceremoniously dumped at their feet. In the moment of silence between the body's disposal and the panicked outbreak upon realisation, Blank actually thought the girl was mad and had bestowed upon them in all her mad wisdom the corpse of a mutilated zombie.

The girl might have explained, but everyone stopped listening past the words: 'I found him in the roots and he's still alive.'

So three days of complete unconsciousness preceded two weeks of tending to the incapacitated genome's needs and then one week of berating the genome for having such needs in the first place and now –

"Gods damn you to hell, Zidane Tribal, if you prod that wound one more time I'm going to wrap this bandage around your fucking neck until your face turns blue and your eyes pop out of your fucking head!"

Zidane cautiously inched his bottom lip out and Blank had half a mind to rip it off, but the poor kid looked so beaten up he bat him round his bandaged head and huffed indignantly instead.

"How're my wounds lookin'?" the blonde asked (or, more accurately, _slurred_) as Blank moved to his back.

The redhead surveyed the mess of jagged wounds, crisscrossing and rendering tender flesh asunder. A few of the nastier ones were inflamed and pus-encrusted despite the Tantalus members' attentive care and cleaning.

"Like shit," he replied after completing his surveillance. "We're not doctors, y'know. But… some of 'em look better, I guess."

"I'll live?"

"Unfortunately."

"I hate being in bed all the time."

"…"

"…Alone, I mean. Maybe you could run down to the Industrial District and pick up a few of the Morphetto Girls? You know, the ones with the blonde hair and –"

"Shut up, you idiot."

Zidane sighed theatrically. "What's a guy gotta do to get some lovin' around here? All I have are a few magazines and Philippe Gash!"

"Stop calling it that." And just to reiterate: "You're fucking disgusting. Besides, I don't think there's a whore broke enough in the world to touch you with a barge pole at the moment."

"Geez, thanks. I look that bad, eh?"

Blank looked at the skeletal, dirty, stinking, greasy-haired monkey in front of him and snorted, "Worse than Cinna without his morning wash."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

Honestly, Blank was just glad he was alive (though he was far from admitting such sentiments aloud). It would have been questionable to state that Zidane's condition was merely questionable. Everyone had expected Zidane's impending doom aside from the boss, who had squatted beside Zidane's sleeping pallet day and night, as if his very presence would prevent the thief's soul from extinguishing.

And obviously it worked, because despite Zidane's permanently drugged disposition and puzzling reluctance to relay any detail of his fatalistic return to the imploding Iifa Tree, he seemed to be recovering, slowly and surely, and death had receded back from wherever it had come.

"…to see her."

Blank blinked. "Eh? What?"

"Oh, sorry. Were you entranced by my rippling muscles?"

The redhead appraised the bony, sunken flesh on the boy's back and snorted. "Oh, _completely_."

Zidane ignored the sarcastic quip and said, "I was sayin' I can't wait to see Dagger again."

"Mmm."

"Don't wanna keep her waiting you know? She needs to be introduced to Master Gash." Zidane moved his hands to the wound and Blank slapped them away before 'Master Gash' could resume conversation, reinforcing this with, "Keep that up and I'll beat you so bad it'll make these wounds look like fucking playground grazes."

Zidane looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Master Gash promises to be good. Zidane's jury is still out, though."

3.

_All over the floor_, Mikoto found herself thinking as she stared at the puddle of rainwater rapidly expanding beneath the motionless genome. _And I'd just cleaned in here too._

The sound of trickling water caught her attention and she averted her gaze to a saucepan overflowing with rainwater. She hurried over and picked it up and emptied the contents out the window before replacing it, casting the leaky roof an exasperated look before reclaiming the spot in front of her brother (though she was yet to refer to him by the curious label).

The house was small and quaint, though the thatched roof proved to be dubious, especially under the onslaught of the monsoon. It was noticeably unadorned; Mikoto found the furnishings typical of the mages' home to be 'superfluous' and 'bothersome', and any gifts the mages offered to try and sway her opinion were politely declined or returned (she didn't see this as rude; in fact, she thought she was doing them a favour). At any rate, her abode was more house than home: a table there, a cooker here, a couch there, two bed's upstairs, a rug to cover the dirty planks of wood beneath the feet…

A rug that was soaking up the rainwater of a certain genome whose unresponsive nature rivalled even his soulless kin.

"I'm getting you a towel," Mikoto told him in an uncharacteristic need to justify her actions. "Wait here."

She rummaged around in one of the tall, wooden cabinets Mr. 328 had constructed for her and found two towels. She returned to find him unmoved and grumpily held the towel out.

He didn't take it, just stared through her.

"Here."

No response.

She sighed, considered drying him off herself then quickly vouched against it, so brusquely threw it at him instead. Surprisingly, and most probably reflexively, he caught it before it tumbled to the floor and blinked several times before focussing on the female genome.

"M…Mikoto…?"

"Yes?"

"Where… The Black… Mage Village?"

"You are in the Black Mage Village. In my house, to be precise."

He blinked again and his brow creased ever so slightly. "Your… house?"

"Yes. This is it."

Zidane's eyes swept around the barren hut and he nodded very, very slowly before summarising his appraisal with a simple: "Oh."

"Dry yourself off," Mikoto instructed crisply and then as an after thought she added, "And you may sit, if you wish."

Zidane fixed her with his cerulean gaze and she noticed, suddenly, that he'd grown taller. His previous blank expression shifted into a tiny smirk and she narrowed her eyes, expecting some sort of quip.

"How kind. I think I do wish to sit," he replied in a brittle tone. It took her a moment to realise he was poking fun at her but he continued before she could reprimand. "You look different… um… what is it?" He raised a hand to his chin. "You look a bit more grown up. How old are you now? Fifteen? Sixteen? Oh wait... I know!" He clicked his fingers. "You've cut your hair!"

Mikoto scowled. "I most certainly have not. It… it is the weather…"

"Eh?"

The girl looked away, slight pinkness creeping into her complexion. "The moisture in the air… makes it curl."

Zidane gave her a once over. She was right; her hair, once straight, had reacted to the damp air of the monsoon and transformed into a charming bundle of golden curls that framed her face in wispy coils.

"I think it looks nice," Zidane reassured as he ruffled his own dishevelled hair with the towel. "Honest! Can I sit down now, Goldilocks?"

She turned her gaze back to him, eyes flashing. "What? What does that mean?"

"Goldilocks? I'm guessing you didn't have fairy tales on Terra."

"You confuse me with your foolish Gaian jargon. Why are you here? Have you come to tease me? Is that it?"

Zidane looked away, his eyes glazing and expression drawing down into something defeated and sombre; an awful expression on the likes of him and it successfully silenced Mikoto's chiding.

"I… there's been… a problem," he began. "At the castle. And I – "

A ruckus at the back door severed his explanation and Zidane noticed the inexplicable and exceedingly uncharacteristic spark of fear in Mikoto's eyes as they shifted toward an unseen intruder behind him. He went to turn but she grabbed his arms, halting his twist.

"Wait!" she cried, the note of panic in her voice startling him. "Don't. Not yet. Let me explain."

Zidane raised an eyebrow and went to continue his twist, but the voice that broke the panic-stricken air halted his movements yet again.

"'The brethren, once torn apart by heinous claws of fate, were reunited 'neath skies of lacquered sapphire, and O; they did weep and cling; their love like boundless oceans.' Lord Avon, is it not? Most appropriate, I think. Aside from the blue skies part..."

Zidane swallowed and it was the loudest sound he'd ever heard. It seemed his heart had frozen in his chest, his breath caught in his throat. Oh, that voice. A voice he'd never forget; a voice that haunted his dreams like the wraith he was.

Or at least, the wraith Zidane had presumed him to be, up until now.

"What's this?" the voice mocked. "Speechless? The saviour of Gaia, the champion of the beloved canary, vanquisher of Necron, rendered _speechless_?"

"Enough!" Mikoto snapped. She returned her gaze to Zidane. Her voice turned soft and apologetic, an odd thing for her. "I was going to tell you..."

Zidane turned and this time the girl didn't hinder his path. She just hoped their reunion wouldn't instigate an all-out battle. She'd just cleaned the place, after all.

* * *

Oh yes. He's back. Be afraid, be very afraid. I thought those three siblings are so weirdly different I quite wanted to write a fic consisting primarily of light hearted banter. But, hell, I made a meal out of it, so now it's got it's own plot. Also, I wanted to erase a rather disturbing mental image of Mikoto and Zidane created by Myshu (darn you!! - I do love that fic though ;-p)

Be prepared! And leave a review :-)


	2. Mikoto's Secrets

**Mikoto's Secret(s)  
**_  
Interlude_:  
Return to the Tree

She really didn't want to have to go back inside. It was tiresome, dangerous and - her cynicalism told her - somewhat futile. Yet something willed her return. Perhaps Kuja's restless soul? Or perhaps her calling had finally come and she was helpless to resist? Or perhaps she had a conscience after all.

Mikoto lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the desert sun and watched the airship become a speck on the horizon. She couldn't believe those strange people had lingered for the likes of a failed genome specimen – though what had he said about friends and family? She couldn't remember. Nevermind. They'd saved her the trouble of lugging his unconscious, mutilated body back to the Black Mage Village anyway, and now she didn't have to take care of him!

But of course, there was the little matter of the _other_ failed specimen.

The genome's hand fell to her side and she began her descent into the labyrinth of damp, twitching roots that were once the divider of souls on this fickle, lively planet.

She hated it already. The way the sun was too bright to look at and the way the heat it exuded had turned her skin an unsightly shade of red. The way it made her feel sticky and short of breath and the way everything – _everything_ – was full of life. Even the sun-baked stones seemed pulse with a verve nothing on Terra could ever have dreamed of possessing.

Poor, dead Terra. Everything she had, everything she was and everything she hated reduced to nothing, never to be returned, even by the will of the gods themselves.

So now what?

First things first: fulfil the purpose Garland had bestowed upon her. Her _true_ purpose. The one she kept from Zidane - lied about, even. Reasons for such mendaciousness were still unclear to her, but the girl didn't possess the energy to pursue such exhausting matters momentarily. Clambering over the endless snarl of roots was draining enough, thank you very much.

Eventually, she reached him. He was paler than she remembered and had aged somewhat. His face remained lean and his figure slender and effeminate, like all the genomes, though something about his countenance portrayed sadism, a trait that had been freshly brewing when she'd briefly met him, many years gone.

She wondered again about the reasons behind her impending actions, but found such pondering futile because, really, she didn't know why she was doing it at all. Personally, she suspected that Garland had installed an involuntary mechanism to trigger if an event of this scale ever occurred. It wouldn't have surprised her. He was a paranoid bastard, especially after Kuja's mutiny.

Mikoto sighed and placed her hands on Kuja's motionless chest. He was cold and clammy to the touch, highly distasteful.

She looked deep within her core and subconscious, triggering the switches that would initiate her unique power. She listened to the hum of her force. Felt is resonating through her veins, surging toward her hands, her palms, her fingertips and –

A florescent explosion of red blinded her vision and she felt the enormous power sink into Kuja's inert form. She felt his soul being called from the grave, being summoned from Terra's endless catalogue of souls.

Kuja inhaled.

Mikoto wondered if she could be bothered to carry him all the way back to the village.

1.

"I thought…"

"Yes?"

"He'd take it better than that."

The clouds were individual clumps of pale wool in the cerulean sky. Cerulean like his eyes. She thought they looked lonely.

"Mmm."

"I don't blame him really." Her tone betrayed that perhaps she did blame him, just a little bit.

"He did leave of his own accord. I didn't think the deal was so bad – "

"Don't put it like that! 'Deal.' What an awful word. I never thought of it like that. You know if it could be any other way… if there was a way round this whole stupid situation then I would have –"

"I don't doubt you."

"But… _he_ does. And that's why he's gone."

"He feels betrayed."

"He doesn't fully understand. If he weren't so… so _impulsive_ then maybe we could've… found an alternative, you know? A compromise. Anything but… _this_."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Her feelings were divided and she knew her faithful consort wanted an answer to his earlier question.

Surprisingly, he asked, "Do you think he'll come back this time?"

And she surprised herself by saying, "I really don't know anymore."

2.

He was exactly as he remembered: tall, effeminate, disturbingly beautiful, and an utter pompous arsehole.

"My, my. What a sour expression. It does nothing for your complexion, dearest brother, which I must say isn't fairing well with age. Although its hard to judge with all that dirt smothering your features."

A lilac shirt fit snugly to his slender frame, a wide satin sash drawing the material tight as a corset. His hair was slice of moonlight falling upon skin of equal hue and his long legs were partially covered by a purple skirt. Pointed boots that were flecked with mud and moist with rain clicked pleasantly upon the wooden boards of Mikoto's floor. A rain-slick umbrella was grasped in his right hand.

And the first thing out of Zidane's mouth was: "Why the heck are you wearing a skirt?"

The trademark smirk flickered just an instant and Mikoto clapped a hand over her mouth in what Zidane swore was to cover an uncharacteristic smile.

The farcicalness of his response hit him and he shuffled on the spot before rewording the question into something more appropriate. "What are you doing… I mean… why are you… here? _Alive_?" And then it _truly_ hit him. "I saw you die! I went into the Iifa after you and you… you… I saw you with my own two eyes! Gods darn it, I saw you _stop_ _breathing_! You can't be Kuja! What the hell is going on!?" He took a few wary steps forward and his expression was an odd mix between curiosity and horror. "Is that you? I mean… _really_? Kuja?"

Kuja's smirk grew again as he flicked his hair behind a milky shoulder. "It is I! I see my appearance is somewhat unexpected. Mikoto's suspiciously proficient at keeping secrets, aren't you little sister? Honestly, close your mouth; you gape like a fish."

Zidane's jaw snapped shut with an audible click of the teeth, but his eyes remained wide and wild. He didn't know what think, how to feel, what to say or do. For two years he'd considered Kuja gone, a memory, a burden that was permanently erased, an old enemy dead and buried beneath the roots of a dead tree. He simply couldn't comprehend it.

So he began stuttering his disbelief again. "But… gods. I don't believe this. How… why… geez. I mean… what the hell? Seriously, what the _hell_!? This is… just… _godsmotherfuckdamn_ I am so confused!"

"Mind your language," Mikoto chided.

At which point, Kuja abruptly lost interest and decided to shake the rain-speckled umbrella all over the lonely couch. Mikoto released a small cry of anger and Kuja responded by sliding slender fingers through his damp hair, easing the moisture onto the floor.

Zidane noticed his face was absent of the makeup he had once worn; his lips looked paler and his eyes a little wider without it. Zidane diffidently acknowledged the disconcerting resemblance between them and observed, too, as he turned to amble away (hips still swinging in a sickly, girly manner) his tail undulating a lazy path in his wake. It was luscious silver and shone with healthy pallor, quite the opposite to Zidane's own, which was matted, dirty and the secret collector of dead leaves and twigs on a good day.

If the thief wasn't mistaken, all these changes seemed to point in one direction: Kuja was finally beginning to acknowledge his origins.

Finally calmed enough to string an intelligible sentence together, the blonde asked dumbly, "So… you didn't die, then?"

Kuja had walked into the kitchen (a closet sized space whose beginnings were signified only by the essential pots, pans and herbs hanging from the ceiling and bearing nought but a few cupboards and a stove) and was boiling water. He didn't look up as he replied: "Oh, no. I was quite dead. You saw that yourself."

When he didn't expand this insane theory Zidane's temper wavered a touch. "_Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on!?"_

"It was me," Mikoto supplied sullenly. She joined her older brother in the kitchen space and fished out three cups from a cupboard. She gestured with one toward Zidane. "Tea?"

"Oh yes, that would be - _Don't change the godsdamn subject_! This is serious! How come Kuja's alive? What do you mean 'it was me'? Why didn't anyone tell me? Don't you think that me – of all people – had a right to know?"

"Your confusion is warranted. Your anger is not. It was my decision not to inform you of Kuja's existence; if ever the information was leaked I do not doubt he would be hunted and killed like a common animal." She shrugged, almost as if she didn't care either way. "I have something to admit now: I lied to you."

"Huh?"

"Do you recall our conversation in the laboratory on Terra? I said I was a replacement for you and Kuja and that I was, essentially, the Third Angel. That is both right and wrong.

"Firstly, you must understand that Garland never doubted you, not for a second; he thought you would be Terra's saviour. Not once did he think you would deny your purpose like Kuja did. But… after witnessing Kuja's strength and finding himself unable to influence your actions after Kuja abandoned you on Gaia, he grew somewhat… nervous. So, he created me. I am an experiment. Not the first of my kind but most definitely the last; I was a success. I was created not to replace you if you failed but to prevent that very failure from occurring. Understand?"

Zidane scratched the back of his head. "Not really."

Kuja hadn't looked up from boiling the water. He was emptying tealeaves into a strainer.

Mikoto sighed, as if she was dealing with an infant. "I have the gift to bring those with Terran souls back from the dead. By Terran souls I mean you – and Kuja, of course. Though Garland specifically ordered me not to resurrect Kuja if anything were to occur. Obviously I went against his wishes – "

"Which I most grateful for," Kuja intervened.

" – _and_ my better instincts. I am technically the Third Angel, just not an Angel of Death, like you."

Zidane winced at the unfavourable title. "Thanks. So um… you can bring me back if I die?"

"Yes."

"That's awesome!"

"There are many conditions; I was only an experiment, remember? The act can be preformed only once – _once_," she reiterated, looking pointedly at Kuja, "and I have to be quick to reach the corpse. That's what Garland told me anyway."

Zidane touched his chin. "I see. Wow. I came here to get away from a mess but it seems I've walked right into another one."

Kuja turned, cup of steaming tea in his lily-white hands, and narrowed his eyes. "I am _not_ the mess in here." He flicked his gaze with obvious distaste up and down Zidane's bedraggled attire, mud-caked feet and mop of unsightly hair. "You on the other hand may _not_ beg to differ. I heard you are partnered with the Queen of Alexandria, is that not correct? Did you not learn any sense of dignity within the castle? Surely you didn't traipse around looking like _that_?"

"Kuja…" Mikoto drawled disapprovingly. She approached Zidane, whose expression had soured somewhat, and handed him a cup of tea. "I have learnt that it is common courtesy to offer a visitor to one's abode a warm beverage, is this correct?"

Zidane's lips quirked into a watery smile as he took the cup from her. "Yeah, you can put it that way, I guess. Thanks."

"And you may sit," Mikoto added as an afterthought.

Kuja had already helped himself to the offer and was sprawled across the tweed couchin a posture that verged on being salacious. Zidane didn't have any particular desire to sit next to the man he'd thought dead the last few years (seeing him wasn't dissimilar to seeing a ghost and he wondered if he was dreaming or going mad) so he pulled up a giant, wooden chest and hunkered on top of that, staring into his mug and thumping his tail against the floor. He was drying off and the steaming tea was clearing his head somewhat.

"I've still got questions," he said, "like… what have you been doing the last two years?"

"Oh, this and that," Kuja replied vaguely and sipped his tea.

Mikoto sent him a withering glare and replied: "Recovering mainly. He was worse than you, Zidane, and it took you almost a year to recover, correct? Your foolish endeavours got you nowhere. I still do not understand why you went back for him in the first place."

"Your kindness is most flattering," Kuja snipped.

Zidane shrugged, hesitant to touch upon the tender subject. Why did he have to explain it to everyone? Kuja did some bad things but everyone deserved a second chance. "That's in the past; it doesn't matter."

The rain lashed against the roof. Mikoto got up and emptied some of the various pots and pans littered about the house to catch the leaks. Kuja and Zidane sat in a silence that the latter found somewhat awkward while the other seemed unperturbed as he daintily sipped his tea and offered Zidane nothing more than a few scrutinising glares. After a moment, the silver-haired genome decided to divulge his thoughts.

"You smell like a Zaghnol's behind."

"Do I?" Zidane replied nonchalantly. "I didn't know sniffing Zaghnols' behinds was a hobby of yours."

"I was speaking _figuratively_. Either way, you smell most unpleasant. And you're filthy. And your clothes are hideous."

"Says the guy wearing a skirt."

"I'll have you know that nothing in this accursed village fits me other than this."

"Yeah, right. Whatever you say."

Kuja straightened. Stray strands of silver whispered across his pale face. "What were you doing out there, anyway? Mikoto says you would announce your visits in letters. Plus, the monsoon is positively diabolical, whatever possessed you strike out alone in such conditions? A suicidal mission?"

Zidane's eyes dropped to his cooling tea, still untouched, and whispered, "Perhaps. I… don't want to talk about it."

Either Kuja lost interest or the obvious pain that twisted Zidane's visage into a sorrowful mask quelled any further probing, because another small silence stretched out between them. Mikoto returned with a rumble of thunder at her heels.

"Go and clean your feet," she instructed. "You're getting muddy footprints all over the rug. You can wear some of Kuja's clothes – "

"I am _not_ wearing a skirt."

"Did I say that? There are other styles of attire, too. Go out and wash your feet in the rain. And you," she turned her wrath toward the other lounging genome, "go and run him a bath. Lots of hot water. He does smell bad and I wont have him making the house smell like a… a…"

"Zaghnol's behind?" Zidane supplied with a grin.

"Yes," Mikoto said. "Whatever that is. Go on! I'll make something to eat. I don't want to see you, Zidane, until you smell and look a little less like you've been rolling in a mud bath all day."

"Yes ma'am!" Zidane replied with a mock salute, glad to take his mind off the worries and heartbreak that plagued him.

Kuja rose from the couch like a flower sprouting from mud and with his nose resolutely tilted skyward floated across the room and started boiling more water in a large pot.

3.

"I don't understand."

"What?"

"Why you went back for him. You're always raving on about people's purposes, and Kuja had…well… finished his. So why go back?"

"I… wasn't really thinking. An installation package courtesy to Garland, I suspect. Something instinctive, out of my control."

"Uh-huh. Then why did you go back for me?"

"You were alive."

"Hadn't I expended my purpose too?"

"…"

"Hmm?"

"A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

Zidane laughed as he scrubbed the mud from his bare feet with a flannel. "I don't understand you at all, but I guess I'll be getting to know you better over the next few weeks."

"_Weeks_!?"

"Yeah. Hope you don't mind accommodating your big bro for a while."

"I… b-but… you haven't even told me _why_."

He waved a hand dismissively. "I will, I will. Now aren't you meant to be cookin' something?"

Mikoto inhaled sharply through her nose - her means of expressing anger. "You are _most_ insensitive."

"And you sound like you've been spending too much time with Kuja," Zidane observed with a good-humoured snort of laughter. "Can't imagine what you're gonna sound like after a few weeks of me _and_ Kuja."

Mikoto paused to consider this remark, turning her gaze skyward as if beseeching the gods for help or asking what she'd done to deserve such unwarranted punishment. Then, obviously not getting the answer she desired, threw a towel at the older genome and stomped back into the house muttering little Terran curses under her breath.

* * *

Big thanks to everyone who reviewed; it means a lot to me! Well, this is me groping for an excuse to bring Kuja back to life. I wanted to avoid the whole 'Oh, actually, Kuja _didn't_ die' plotline because he clearly _did_ die in the game. So I hope Mikoto's purpose is a believable twist. And don't worry; there is a plot to this. I promise! Feedback is much appreciated


	3. The Beginning of Reasoning

**The Beginning of Reasoning**

1.

The castle seemed quiet without him. In fact, everything seemed quiet without him: the town, the people, her heart, her soul, her voice. He was her everything and now…

"Your Highness… we cannot wait much longer."

Garnet stared despondently out the window, her eyes hardened like chips of caramelised brown sugar. "Who is this 'we', General Beatrix?"

The woman behind her stiffened. "You must understand that Steiner and I… if we could arrange the outcome to be more… desirable then we would not hesitate."

"Really?"

"We wish only to see you happy, Your Highness."

"I do wonder sometimes."

Beatrix was stung beneath the endless verbal blows her beloved queen issued, yet she took them without protest because she understood the pain that cracked Garnet's heart.

He had gone… again.

"Please," she pressed. "I understand the pain you must be feeling but you were aware of what the law states and demands. It is a tradition – a requirement – that cannot be bent."

"It could be bent…"

Beatrix hesitated. "Yes but… Your Majesty you must think of the consequences of such action… for your kingdom's sake! Such an act could lead to civil war between Alexandria's nobles… even stretch as far as Lindblum. The uproar would be immense and unnecessary."

Garnet visibly slumped against the window frame, supporting herself with one, frail hand. It occurred to Beatrix how young she was, how easily broken, and she scolded herself for being unable to support her queen's fragile heart.

"I'll have to go through with it, wont I?" she whispered.

"I'm afraid so…"

"He probably wont come back…"

Beatrix had no answer for this. She had been present outside the chamber doors when the argument had commenced and had witnessed his broken visage and angry tears as he'd stormed out, slamming the doors so hard they came loose from the hinges. Of course he hadn't understood, they were all foolish to expect him to. He was a thief, unwise in the ways of royalty. He was young and blindly in love; everything was black and white to him.

"For your kingdom," Beatrix whispered, "you must go ahead with the plans and I must issue the statement. If he truly loves you… he will return."

"Do you believe that?"

The angry tears, the defeated, hurt expression. For the first time Beatrix lied to her queen: "Yes. I do."

2.

"I look like a freakin' pussy. Gods have mercy if any of my Tantalus brothers see me like this."

"It is traditional Terran garb."

"… Is that meant to make me feel better?"

"I find it a considerable improvement to those rags you were sporting earlier," a third voice contributed.

"Shut the hell up, Kuja. They're a damn sight better looking than… than whatever the heck I'm wearing now…"

Zidane looked down at the blue and white satin shirt covering his torso and tugged disdainfully at the matching breeches. "Well, at least their blue," he sighed compliantly, "and have a tail hole. But as soon as my other clothes get washed I'm puttin' them back on!"

The storm was beginning to peter out and Zidane was looking modestly refreshed after a good two hours soaking in the scalding bath (he swore Kuja had made it that hot on purpose and Mikoto wouldn't let him wait for it to cool) and eating three portions of potato and mushroom stew. The tub was situated in a tiny annex (little more than a shed pushed against the side of the house) and the meal was consumed at a little wooden table with, Zidane noticed, an air of habitual ceremony.

"At least you smell better," Mikoto commented lightly. "The muted hue of your hair confuses me somewhat, though. Did you not scrub it like I instructed?"

"For the last time, _yes_!"

"Some dirt wont be budged," Kuja proclaimed, "especially on ill-mannered, street urchins, like _you_. That tan doesn't help either; it makes you look unclean."

"Hey, chicks dig son-bronzed guys!" was Zidane's protest.

Mikoto blinked up at him. "Chicks… dig…?"

Zidane and Kuja stared at her for a moment and the latter hid a wry chuckle behind slender fingers. No one bothered to explain and Mikoto decided against asking.

"Kuja and I sleep upstairs," she told her rambunctious brother. "There are only two beds."

"That's fine," the rambunctious brother in question answered, rolling his shoulders and yawning loudly. "I'll sleep on the couch."

What light the storm had allowed through its heavy clouds had receded into inky darkness so Mikoto had lit the many lamps lining the walls, complaining, 'Terra was never this dark. I don't understand why the light has to come and go. It's rather bothersome.' Now they were bathed in a comfortable amber hue, with Kuja reclined across the couch, Zidane atop the chest (stuffed with clothes, he'd discovered earlier) and Mikoto daintily perched upon the couch's arm. The gentle pattering of rain and muffled calls of the owls preceded their silence.

"Tell us why you're here," Mikoto asked. "You seemed… somewhat distracted when I found you in the wood."

"Trouble in paradise?" Kuja interpreted with a smirk.

That remark from Kuja combined with the infuriating expression reminded Zidane why he'd disliked the man in the first place and he cast him a molten glare. "I don't want to talk about it yet. I just… want to forget for a little while and figure something out later."

"Will your companions not be concerned for your whereabouts?" his sister pried. "Is that not what companions do?"

"Well… yeah but… I'm a big boy. I can handle myself; they know that."

"They wont come here looking for you?"

"Nah. Doubt it."

"Why _were_ you here?"

Zidane stared off into the distance, expression becoming melancholy. "I came to visit Vivi's… grave. It's… where I go to think… to clear my head, y'know? He always knew what to say to comfort people and sometimes I feel like there's a hole where he should be. He was always easy to talk to, and so brave and smart, though he never knew it. I feel close to him when I'm by his grave; I ask for his advice. I know he can't answer but… sometimes I feel like he can hear me." Zidane blinked and cleared his throat. "That's stupid, I know, but what can I say? I miss the little guy."

Kuja sat broodingly, eyes averted to the ground. He refrained from commenting, which was unwittingly wise, because Zidane had already vowed to render his flesh from bone if the silver-haired mage even _thought_ about mentioning Vivi.

"So… you really wont tell us?" Mikoto pressed.

Zidane shook his head. "Not now. Hurts too much. Will though… maybe after sleep… and more stew."

"More!?" Mikoto gasped. "I think you've eaten enough."

Zidane stuck his bottom lip out. "Pleeaase…?"

"No."

"Oh, okay, I guess I'll just… ugh… ah – oh!" The genome suddenly dropped to the floor, grasping his stomach and wincing in pain. Mikoto jumped up, flittering nervously.

"What? What's wrong?"

Kuja rolled his eyes. "Ignore him."

"Ugh… oh gods… I…"

"Zidane!? What's wrong?"

"Ugh… so… hungry…can't… go on…"

Mikoto blinked. "What? You're hungry?"

"Hurts… argh… have to… eat…"

The female genome scuttled to the kitchen and began preparing food, mumbling something about 'being unaware that extensive time on Gaia could lead to discomfort if a person becomes malnourished.'

Zidane sat up and grinned and Kuja flopped back onto the couch with his wrist across his eyes, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'insufferable oaf' beneath his breath.

_Interlude_:

Reunion With the 'Unsuspecting Cliental'

Garnet eased herself into her high-backed golden throne, thinking the velvet cushion wasn't half as comfy as she would've liked, especially considering she had another two hours of sitting to look forward to.

"Can I get you anything, Your Majesty?" a servant asked.

"A partner who can keep track of time would be nice," she sighed.

"Your Majesty?"

"Oh nothing, I was just thinking wistful thoughts. No, no, I'm quite alright. Though if you see Zidane kindly remind him that he's due in the Grand Meeting Parlour right about now. Oh, and also kindly remind him of our discussion about his time keeping expertise."

The servant gave the girl a puzzled look but bowed and shuffled away obediently.

Alone now, Garnet contemplated the long witchwood table that bore the fruits of Quina's labour. Various dishes that were made to be 'picked at', though she knew from experience that these light culinary snacks would rival a peasant's feast, and that made her a feel a little sad. However, it was custom, not to mention common courtesy, to offer the guest nourishment, especially one as high ranking as Lord Salvarian.

Lord Salvarian was an admired noble that owned a substantial portion of Alexandria's land to the west, not mention one of the largest estates in Treno. He also held much of the court in his favour and it was therefore necessary that Garnet try her best to appease him.

Since her mother's death and her coronation, the queen had seen him only in passing during court matters and necessary royal functions, and Beatrix had politely suggested Garnet invite the noble on informal reasons to keep things sweet.

Garnet found it difficult balancing the opinions of court. It didn't matter how neutral she kept her opinions they always seemed to upset someone, and Garnet hated seeing her subjects unhappy. Zidane would always say 'you can't please everyone' but she often wished there was a way.

She hoped pleasing Lord Salvarian wouldn't be too taxing. Truthfully, she hoped the lunch would be over quickly so she could return to finish off issuing edicts in time to spend the evening with her ever-elusive partner.

The double doors at the end of the Grand Meeting Parlour (a room smaller than the Grand Hall and less formal; a place where trivial matters are discussed to people whose rank still demand royal surroundings) swung open and a squat man dressed in gold preformed a sweeping bow.

"Your Majesty, Lord Salvarian has arrived."

"He may enter," Garnet said.

"Very good, You Majesty."

The man disappeared and another man took his place after a brief interval. He was tall and considered handsome by most (though Garnet found the shrewd spark in his eyes not much to her liking) with his sweep of chestnut hair, finely trimmed beard and clear grey eyes. He wore a deep purple doublet with flared sleeves and ruffled neck cloths; the current fashion in Treno, she knew. Garnet herself wore colours fashionable in Alexandria: a pearl-white dress that had a ridiculously long trail (in her humble opinion) and a cluster of ivory flowers peppering her plaited hair.

Lord Salvarian preformed a flawless bow, eyes courteously lowered, and waited upon Garnet's second permission to enter. The queen rose from her throne at the end of the table and bid him do so.

"Your Highness," Lord Salvarian greeted, his voice flecked with a slight Treno accent. "You are looking resplendent, as usual." He approached her confidently and she offered him her hand; he kissed the air above it before taking a seat to her right.

"Thank you, my lord. You are looking well yourself. How do you fair?"

"All the better after receiving your invitation. I am most flattered that you would spend your precious time on the likes of myself."

Garnet noticed his tone suggested that he very much _did_ expect her to spend time on the likes of himself but kept her distaste hidden with practised ease. "Nonsense. I am glad you're here. Tell me, how do cope with the new acres of issued land?"

"Very good. Though might I be so bold to inquire as to Her Majesty's reasons behind bestowing me with such an unwarranted gift…?"

"Oh, it's not unwarranted at all. You are most adept at maintaining Alexandria's land and are most attendant with your taxing, though you remain merciful; a rarity for someone of your stature."

"Please, Your Highness, I do not think I am worthy of such kind words."

_I bet you don't, you pompous windbag_, Garnet thought and was about to broach on the subject of farming upkeep when the noble had the nerve to say: "Has Your Majesty found a husband, yet?"

Garnet blinked, the goblet of wine that was halfway to her lips grinding to a halt. She scrutinised the lord with an air of menace, but he returned her glare with feigned ignorance and she remembered herself and his position quick enough to regain her composure.

She put down the goblet and cleared her throat. "Well… there is someone…"

"Oh? Has Her Majesty been holding back on us?" he asked with playful tones that ground her nerves like wheat beneath a pestle.

"I do not wish to make my private life public," she snipped as politely as possible. "If you beg my pardon, my lord."

Lord Salvarian waved a hand, lowering his eyes respectfully. "Not at all. Please forgive my audacity. It's just there are rumours flying round both Treno and Lindblum and I thought… well… that I was a little behind on the news."

"Not at all."

"He is a noble?" Lord Salvarian pressed. His face split into a dashing smile that would be sure to woo any young maiden into conformity. Any young maiden aside Garnet, that is, who a rather unusual taste in men.

"No. I do not think –"

"A cousin?"

"No. I do not think –"

Her initial reprimand was cut short as two familiar voices drifted into audibility behind the double doors from which Lord Salvarian had entered, and both their attentions were wordlessly diverted.

"…and fourthly, one should not, under any circumstance, approach someone of nobility wearing… wearing… _that_. Do you understand? Are you listening?"

"Give it a rest, Rust-a-lot! Geez, you're burning my friggin' ears off. Let go! Quit it!"

"Silence! You cannot present yourself before the good lord in such a state!"

"State? I am not a state!" The jeer in voice indicated the opposite and Garnet stilled herself for the worst.

The doors opened with such a frighteningly loud bang Lord Salvarian visibly jumped; Garnet remained unmoved. She was used to partner's brusque way of entering quarters.

"Sorry I'm late, babe!"

Garnet quickly scanned his attire. Nothing unusual there… an untucked, sleeveless shirt with one greasy smear down the front, a pair of faded breeches and a pair of leather boots, daggers swinging off a loose belt. It was his face that was the problem this time. The area around his lips, his cheeks, and even eyebrows were encrusted with clumps of what looked like flour. He looked like he was suffering from an unknown disease.

"Guess what?" the newcomer yelled. "Me and Quina were having a Sugar Competition! You know what a Sugar Competition is? Well, you know the pastries that have all those granules of sugar on the top? You know, the ones that are covered in 'em? The Sugar Competition is when you have to eat as many as you can without licking your lips and guess what else? I won! I ate sixteen and didn't wipe my mouth once –"

His sentence was severed as his blue eyes flicked from Garnet to the man beside her and he abruptly froze, hand still pointing dumbly to his face and eyes abruptly losing their exhilarated twinkle.

Zidane Tribal said: "Oh, _shit_."

Thinking he'd forgotten about their meeting with Lord Salvarian and thinking his curse was due to his self-realised incompetence, Garnet opened her mouth to recover the situation when the lord in question stood so abruptly the chair fell backward and clattered to the floor.

"_You_!" he snarled in a tone that suggested introductions with the thief were unnecessary.

Dumbstruck, Garnet stared from one man to the other and Steiner likewise. Zidane gulped and licked his lips, repeating, "Ooooh _shit_."

The usually restrained noble pushed away from the table and advanced toward the blonde with such menace she thought he was inclined to run him down. Instead, he grabbed the front of Zidane's shirt and hoisted him upward, their faces inches apart. Salvarian's handsome visage twisted with rage and Garnet could see a little blue vein pumping beneath his reddened forehead.

"You _manipulative_ little _bastard_! What in Bahamut's name do you think you're doing in the presence of the queen!? I ought to slit your throat from ear to ear and -"

"L-Lord Salvarian!" Garnet impeded, gathering her wits. "Please restrain yourself!"

"You are before the Queen of Alexandria!" Steiner bellowed. "If you cannot demonstrate composure than at least mind you language, lest you be subject to punishment!"

The lord seemed to recover himself, perhaps remembering his company, and released his grip on the genome. He smoothed his hair back into place. "My deepest, most sincerest apologies, You Majesty, Captain Steiner. My anger seemed to have got the better of me."

"Yo, where's my apology?" Zidane chirped, grin widening into something nothing short of a smirk.

The noble spun back to face him. Garnet saw his eyes narrow and his lips curl with obvious distaste. She nodded to Steiner who stiffened and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"There will be no violence before her Majesty," Steiner barked.

Not taking his eyes from Zidane, Salvarian tersely inhaled. "I would never dream of such a thing. However, no power on this earth could make me apologise to this _common_ _thief_. I spit on the likes of you, scoundrel!"

The blonde snorted. "Oh please. Take that pole outta your arse you godsdamn fag –"

"Zidane!" Garnet yelled. "Enough! Lord Salvarian I urge you again to restrain yourself." And then she said something she would regret for some time to come. "You are speaking to the future King of Alexandria so I should watch your tongue and your manner when addressing His Majesty!"

Salvarian had the look of a man struck by an aircab. "I… beg pardon… Your Highness, I believe my hearing must be failing me. Did you just say –"

"You heard me," Garnet reinforced. "And with the greatest respect I ask for your leave. Right now."

"K-king…?" Salvarian continued, ignoring Garnet's last request. "But the law… you cannot simply marry –"

"Are you dictating the rules of my own kingdom to me, Lord Salvarian? For your sake, I do hope that isn't the case. I have asked you to leave, now be so kind and heed my request. It would be most embarrassing for us both to have you escorted from the castle premises by less agreeable means."

Steiner took a menacing step forward. Zidane stuck his tongue out and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Lord Salvarian's eyes darted from queen to knight to thief and the initial confusion fizzled away into steaming fury.

"My apologies, Your Highness." He turned back to Zidane, eyes flaring and tiny smirk quirking his lips. "_Lord_ Zidane. I do hope we meet again under much more… _accommodating_ circumstances."

Thinking the threat to be nothing more than another pompous façade, Zidane shrugged it off with an obscene gesture and a few choice words.

And Salvarian marched from the room with red ears and a notable air of vengeance burning in his wake.


End file.
